


The Boy Who Loved Dragons

by lookninjas



Series: Variations on a Theme of Pomegranates [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts to know the truth: that his brother is gone, that the story of his fame is gone, too, and can never be told. But there is another story here, and the storyteller thinks he is starting to see the shape of it now, in the two young faces before him, in the softness of their eyes as they look on one another and the firm clasp of their hands intertwined. And it is, in some ways, very similar to the tales he heard on his journey: the sacrifice of the witch's boy, and how Death came to him and, moved by his beauty and his trust, fell in love with him, and gave him not the pain of the sacrifice, but all the pleasures of love.</p>
<p>It is similar to that story.</p>
<p>But in another way, it is very different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Loved Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Third variation of the Pomegranates story; this is more of an Orpheus story, focusing on Cooper. Because given the barest opportunity to do so, I will write Cooper Anderson into everything.

The first time he hears the story, he is far from home, in a warm, sun-drenched land near the sea.

He likes this land; it's very different from his landlocked village, with its flat golden fields and dark forests and strange, forbidden groves, its scalding summers and ice-chilled winters. Here the fields are bright with flowers, and the sand rises up from the vast blue horizon into softly sloping hills. The sun is kind, the rains generous, and the people here are gentle, friendly. They do not fear for the harvest the way his own people do; they do not seek to placate the gods as his village did. They do not speak of witches and devil, and they stare in shock when the storyteller speaks of the ritual of the sacrifice, both fascinated and appalled by the idea of such a barbaric practice. The storyteller likes this land very much. It's nothing like the place he's come from.

Which is why, a few months into his time there, he decides he needs to go home.

Not to stay, of course not. He has no desire to live in that village again, to take over his father's work planning the sacrifices and placating the gods and casting out demons and devils. But there is one there, a boy with golden skin and bright eyes and dark, curling hair. He used to sit with the storyteller, eyes shining with excitement as the storyteller practiced his craft, learning which stories delighted the boy, which ones made him sad, which ones made him too frightened to sleep and should be avoided at all costs. As he got older and more inventive, he came running to the storyteller with tales of his own to tell. Sometimes he would stumble over the words, or rush when he should have lingered, or dwell on tangents that interested no one but him. He loved dragons, and could go on for ages about them, long after his only audience was weary of the topic. But there was something in the boy that shone brightly, for all his fumblings; he had a native talent the storyteller could only marvel at. He could tell that, given time and practice and experience, the boy would be exceptional, better than any. People would know him, love him; they would flock to his side. And while a part of the storyteller dreaded that day, when he would be utterly eclipsed, there was also that within him that longed for the day he told the story of the boy who he had taught, the boy who he had helped rise to greatness.

But the storyteller was many years older than the boy, and when it was his time to leave the village, the boy was not even ready to leave his mother's side. So the storyteller had gone on his way alone, leaving behind nothing but a promise: that if the boy could be very good, and practice his stories, and work on his craft, then the storyteller would return for him one day. They would travel together; the two of them would be famous, and loved, and every fire would be open to them, and every village would celebrate them, and they would never want for anything. The world would be theirs.

And the boy promised faithfully that he would do as the storyteller had said, and that he would be good, and that he would wait for the storyteller to return.

That had been years ago.

Now the storyteller is here, where the air is sweet and the people are gentle, where they do not fear Death but welcome Him, even setting a place for Him at the table on feast days. It is a good place; it would be a good home for the boy, who looks very like the people here, and who was taught by his mother to believe as these people do. He could be happy here, surrounded by his mother's people and taught by his father's son. And after all, the boy's story will belong to the storyteller one day; it will be his to tell. Therefore, he should have at least a little choice in the setting of it. This is as good a place as any for a story to begin, probably better than most.

So the storyteller sets to work, presenting himself at feasts and at celebrations, at any gathering he can find. He tells every story he has twice over, and then he changes the details a little and he tells them all again. It isn't the easiest work for a man (no matter what his father might say on the subject), but the storyteller has a gift for inviting himself places, a native charm that opens doors that would otherwise remain closed. With time, and perseverence, he has saved enough coin to buy himself a place on a fast ship, heading roughly in the direction he needs to travel, and has hopefully made enough of a name for himself that it will carry him the rest of the way.

Two days before his departure from the land by the sea (not a permanent departure, he tells those who've come to know him, but a brief absence, an errand to run and nothing more), he hears of a storyteller newly come from a city not far from his own little village. The man purports to have an entirely new story, true events that happened not more than a year past, a thrilling and tragic tale of forbidden love and dark sacrifice, of passion and anger and impossible hope arising in the darkest of moments. It sounds interesting enough; the storyteller is always on the lookout for something new, something he can make his own. And it's a tale of his own land, and that in itself is enough to make him curious.

So he sits himself by another storyteller's fire, and hears his story.

Two days later, he finds himself on a fast ship, huddled below the decks with his aching head in his hands, in too much pain to cry. His stomach churns; his mouth is cotton-dry. He is aware, in a vague sort of way, that he has spent nearly all the money for his journey on drink. He is aware, too, that he still has not drunk enough to forget the story he heard: that once, in a small village with strange traditions, there lived a witch's boy with bent affections; and that when the moon was full, he slipped away to a sacred grove to visit his lover, who was Death Himself. But the boy's secret was not as secret as he thought, and the time of the sacrifice was coming...

Much of the story is untrue, of course; certainly, the boy's mother was no witch, just a woman whose wisdom failed her once, and who lived the rest of her life with the consequences. But, even suffering the self-inflicted agony of too much (not enough) drink, the storyteller knows that the heart of the story is true. He knows that the fast ship is carrying him towards a village that has nothing left for him.

He knows that his brother is dead.

So he holds his head, and does not cry, because some things hurt too much for tears.

The ship rolls and tosses; he is sick for days and unable to sleep, swaying in his narrow bunk. But on the ship, at least, he can hide in his bunk, and avoid all others. When they reach their port -- when he is forced to walk among others again, and sit by their fires, and listen to their speech -- that is when his journey becomes difficult. All his life, he has sought out others, has wooed them with the charm of his personality and the cleverness of his tongue and made them fall in love with him whether they would or no. Now he can barely stand to look another in the face. Every pair of wide, dark eyes he meets, every head of dark, curling hair (and there are many such here in the warm lands), reminds him of a promise he waited too long to keep, of a father he never feared enough and a ritual he was too timid to condemn. Every time he sits by a fire to tell his tales, his throat closes with the memory of one who will never sit by his knee again, who will never hang on his words, watching him with shining eyes. He thinks of the boy, who will never see the lands that the storyteller longed to show him, who will never sit among his own people, who will never dazzle them with his own tales. The boy who should have been better than anyone else but instead died, alone and frightened, among people who never knew what a talent they were murdering.

But of course, the storyteller must tell his tales, because if he is silent then another will speak. And that is worse, for there is one tale that is more popular than any these days, and that is the tale of Death and the witch's boy.

He hears it over and over again in his travels, a hundred different ways. Sometimes Death comes a-wooing, with gentle hands and sweet promises; sometimes He is terrible, unstoppable in His lust. Sometimes the boy is willing, sometimes even demanding; sometimes he is terrified. Often, the witch is gone when her son is taken, but there are versions of the story where she is not; and in some of these tales she fights to keep her child by her side, but in others she assists her son to join his Lover, even gives him away. One version of the story, which the teller avows to be the absolute truth, claims that Death did not come for the boy at all; that the boy had a mortal lover, a strange youth not much older than the boy himself, and that when the boy was chosen to be sacrificed, his mortal love came to him, and the two died together. Another states baldly that the boy's lover was indeed Death, and that the boy himself was no mortal -- that the witch was no witch at all, but a spirit of the forest taken roughly by a lustful God, and that the child born of that union was indeed a spirit of fertility, and therefore destined for Death, as all things pass from their birth to their graves in the end. It isn't true, of course -- the storyteller knows full well that the man who fathered the witch's boy was no god (and although he cannot be certain, he does think his father cared for the woman in his own way, and was not rough with her, or at least he hopes so).

And as for the story of the mortal lover, who came to the boy in order to die with him... It is certainly a possibility, of course, but at the end, it is only one possibility among many that seem at once equally true and yet equally false, as stories tend to be.

The storyteller hates the story. He hates that it is false in so many ways; at the same time, he hates that there are parts that are true. More than anything, he hates that this is his brother's story, not a tale of shining success after shining success, a tale of love and admiration and devotion, but a tale of fear, and hatred, and loneliness, and death. He hates that, if he wants to tell his brother's story, this is the story left for him to tell; he hates that others, who never knew the boy or even saw his face, are telling this tale and not him. He hates to hear the story; he hates to walk away from it when it is being told, for fear that he will miss some truth that he has yet to hear. He hates that he was not there to stop it from happening; he hates that he cannot stop his feet for carrying him home even now that it is too late for him to rewrite the tale. He hates his part in the story; he hates that it is never told, that no one knows that the witch's boy had a brother, who left when he should have stayed and made a promise that he was too slow in keeping.

He hates the story.

He hates it nearly as much as he hates himself.

And yet, he seeks out the tale more and more often even as he travels inexorably to his home, to the promise unkept, to the voice Death has silenced. He is not entirely sure why; he thinks, possibly, that he is seeking the one version of the story that is entirely true, with no embellishments. That, as he walks among people who are like his own people, who might even have been to his little village and heard their version of the story, he will finally learn what truly happened to his brother, whether he died in pain or at peace, whether he knew love before his death or only after or never at all. That if he listens long enough, perhaps he will come across a version of the story worth telling.

He does not. Of course he does not.

There is only one place to hear that tale, and the storyteller cannot believe that there will be anyone there waiting to tell it.

But he keeps going.

He reaches his own village some two years after the sacrifice of the witch's boy, and finds it not much changed. It is late summer, and the air is hot and close, the fields green and lush; the harvest, they say, will be good this year. And this seems a miracle to some, for there was no sacrifice the year before, nor will there be one this year. But some say that the God has sent them a sign that He has taken all He wishes, and desires no more, therefore they are safe from Him now. Others say that the sacrifice was never needed, that it was never more than a superstitious ritual whose time has ended, and that if there is indeed a God of Death, He cares not for their village or its harvest, but spends all His time collecting the dead and delivering them to their final homes, and desires no sacrifices, but cares only for His work. And still others grow quiet when the sacrifice is mentioned, and say nothing at all, or say only that the ways of the Gods are not for mortals to understand, and then talk of other things.

And although the boy is not yet two years gone, and there are few if any in the village who did not know him in his life, no one speaks of him now that he is gone. Nor do they speak of his sacrifice, the last sacrifice, or what happened to him that night; they say only that those days have passed, and perhaps it is for the best, although perhaps it is not. When the storyteller asks them if they remember a youth who may have come to the village, and stayed with them a while, and perhaps fell in love with a boy from the village, he is told that such a thing is possible, that there are always those who come and then go, but that none can truly be certain. Perhaps there was a stranger. Perhaps there was a boy. Perhaps the two were fond of one another, although such a thing is far more common in the decadent south than it is here, where the work is hard and people are simple and good. Perhaps it is so, that these things happened.

Perhaps it is not so.

But the harvest will be good this year, will it not?

And that is the only story they know.

The storyteller visits his own home, although he knows there are no stories there; there are never any stories in that house, save the ones he brings himself. But his father is there, no longer the handsome man with sharp features who taught a village to fear Death, but old, and bent, and ill. Of course, Death remains very much on his mind, moreso these days than ever before. But he speaks not of the boy's Death, but of his Own, of a Death that comes slow and creeping and gradually sucks the life from him as a leech might suck his blood. He cares nothing for anything or anyone else. And the storyteller's mother only shakes her head when her son asks questions, as she always has, and tells him that his curiosity will be his end someday.

And so the storyteller leaves his home, as he did so many times as a boy, and travels to the outskirts of the village, where once there lived a woman they called a witch, and a little boy whose father some called a devil (never knowing how right they were). But the witch's house is gone now, reduced to black ashes and rubble. Only the garden remains, flourishing as much as it did when the woman lived and tended it, with vegetables ripening on their vines or growing deep in the earth, and good herbs, green and fragrant, sprouting from the rich soil. And around the garden, her pomegranate trees grow tall, the fruit already forming on their branches, although it is too early for it to be ripe.

But the chair where the storyteller would sit, and practice his craft under the admiring gaze of the witch's boy, is long gone.

So he leaves that place, too.

The days are long at this time of year -- the daylight hours stretch out for what seems like years, hot and sticky and somnolent. The people of the village do the bulk of their work in the mornings, when the air is cooler and more can be accomplished; as the sun rises high in the sky, they retreat to the shade of their houses, to rest. And this was the time when the storyteller, as a boy, would leave his home and seek the company of the witch and her son. Their house is gone now, as is the chair that was his. But there is one place remaining where he might find some echo of them. For the woods outside the village are cool and pleasant at this time of day, and the boy never feared them; he even dared to visit the sacred grove from time to time, although no one else ever would. And the storyteller has heard, as all do, that the dead are prone to returning to the spot of their passing. There is no reason for the boy to be an exception, to shun in death the place he loved so much in life.

And so that is where the storyteller trains his steps -- to the grove, to the place where his brother died.

It is not a place he visited often when he lived in the village. Once he accompanied his father here, to collect what remained of the sacrifice (he'd had to leave the grove almost as soon as he'd stepped inside it, overwhelmed by the sight and the smell of it, blood and bruised flesh and the sharpness of urine and the expression of terror on a face no older than his own); and the summer after that, when he heard that the boy had taken to playing in the grove, he came running to pull him back to the safety of the village, away from any wandering devils that might take him for a sacrifice and leave him as battered as the sacrifices were left -- that latter incident, now, seems almost like a premonition. Of course, he was nearly a man in those days, old enough to understand that not all devils are supernatural, that many were indeed human, and prone to mortal passions. And there were times, in those days, when he feared his father's passions more than he feared anything else. So he'd come, and taken the boy away from the grove, back to his own house and the chair where the storyteller would sit, and spin tales, and distract the boy from his wandering.

Once, and once only, had he done this. And having done it, he believed his brother safe, and left him behind in the village, with all its devils.

And now he stands at the entrance to the grove one more time, this time too late to pull his brother to safety.

For the first time since the storyteller first heard the tale of Death and the witch's boy, his eyes fill with tears.

"I should have been here," he says. "I should've... I should've been here."

Nothing answers him but the sound of a light breeze rustling the brittle leaves of the slender birch trees that circle the grove.

He takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from his eyes, and steps into the grove.

Many of the tales that the storyteller has heard of this grove speak of a bed of flowers growing out of the dark earth, and sure enough, they are there -- white and red and gold, bright and beautiful in the shade of the trees. The storyteller kneels near them, touches a gold petal with one of his fingers, blinks away fresh tears. There is no grave for the boy, his brother; even if his body didn't sink into the earth, as the stories say, it is tradition in his village to burn what remains of the sacrifices after they have been taken. These flowers, then, are all that are left of the little boy he once knew, the child with curly hair and shining eyes who hung on his every word, the boy who loved dragons and promised faithfully to be good and to practice and to _stay away from the grove, Blaine; you have to promise me from now on that you'll --_

"I'm so sorry," the storyteller whispers, his eyes flooding with tears that his shaking fingers cannot clear quickly enough, and the flowers blur in his sight. "I'm so sorry, Blaine."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," a voice says, behind him, and the storyteller rises to his feet so quickly that he nearly falls straight into the flowers. But a hand catches him by the shoulder, not a boy's hand but a man's, strong and graceful, with golden skin.

The storyteller turns, and looks, and sees the owner of that hand, and for a few desperately hopeful seconds, his heart stutters to a stop. "Blaine," he says, his heart too full for him to say anything more.

His brother smiles up at him, wide eyes shining as brightly as they did when he was a child. "Brother," he says. And then his hand is tightening on the storyteller's shoulder, pulling him in close, and his brother is embracing him, warm and strong and whole and so, so real, so alive, and --

"They said you died," the storyteller gasps, holding his brother tightly, crying even harder now although he could not name the reason. "All those stories, all those people, they said you were chosen for the sacrifice, that you were --"

"But I am," the boy says, softly, his hold on the storyteller weakening a little. "I -- I'm sorry, if you thought -- I wanted to see you, and I wanted to introduce you --"

The storyteller opens his eyes, then, and through the blur of his tears, he can see a figure standing at the edge of the grove -- a pale youth, clad in silvery white. In the shadows of the grove, He gleams like the moon, and the storyteller knows. "No," he whispers, and shuts his eyes tight, and clutches his brother to him with all his strength. "No, no, _no_ \--"

"I'm so sorry," the boy says, his voice rough, sorrowful; he rubs soothing circles in the storyteller's back.

"But I can feel you," the storyteller protests, because it's true. His brother is solid and strong in his arms, warm and alive, and he knows the truth, of course he knows the truth, but he also knows what he feels and that means something, it has to. "You're here, and I can feel you, and this is real, it is, I can --"

"Of course it's real," the boy tells him, as gently as he can. "Of course it's -- I wanted to see you. I've wanted it so much, for so long, and I --"

And the storyteller feels the illusion breaking all around him, even as his brother stays solid and strong, holding him up. His tight grip on the boy finally slackens, and he drops his head to the boy's strong shoulder and sobs, gasping out apologies with every breath. "I'm so sorry, I'm so -- I was late, I was too late, and I -- I'm so sorry, Blaine. I should've been here. I should've --"

"It's all right," his brother says, holding the storyteller tight to him and stroking his back, letting him cry into his shoulder, and it's so strange to weep on the shoulder of the boy that he's mourning, to be comforted by the one he lost; it's hard to fathom how he's come to this place and so he doesn't try. He just cries, and his brother holds him, and says, "It's all right. It's... When you meet Him, when you speak to Him, when you see... You'll understand. You'll understand, when you meet Him. He's nothing like our father said; He's --"

"Father," the storyteller chokes out; he pulls back a little ways, enough to study his brother's face, to search him for damage, even though it's been two years since the sacrifice and for all he knows, the dead can heal; certainly his brother seems healthy now. "He... Tell me he didn't get to you, Blaine, that he didn't touch you; if he touched you, I'll --"

"My Love came to me," the boy says, and cups the storyteller's rough, stubbled cheek in the palm of one hand, "before our father did. I left peacefully, with no pain, and of my own free will." He glances briefly over his shoulder, at the pale Youth in the shadows; He has come no closer, but hangs back, as if uncertain. "Sometimes, it still feels like a dream," the boy admits. "He's so very..." Then the boy blushes, and turns his head aside; when his neck stretches out, the storyteller notices a darkened bruise in the hollow of his collarbones.

"He's very something," the storyteller notes, his voice still shaking a little, but stronger now; the boy blushes darker, and says nothing. "But Blaine..." The storyteller turns his brother's face back to him with one hand, his palm pressed to the strong bone of his brother's chin. "Our father," he says. "He was going to... It would have been him. If... If your Love hadn't come. It would have been him."

The boy just looks at him for a long time, large eyes dark and solemn. "I know," he says, softly. "But his Death will come for him in time, and I do not think..." He sighs, and drops his head. "I do not think it will be the Death that came for me," he murmurs, looking up at the storyteller through his thick, dark lashes. "I think..." He shakes his head. "But I would not have you be that Death. Promise me that you will not."

"I..." The storyteller looks at his brother, at his wide earnest eyes, and then he takes a deep breath, and his shoulders slump, and he nods. "I promise," he says. "Not that I... He is sick, and old, and I..." Another deep breath, and he gathers himself, and says, "If I had any heart for killing, I would have stayed in the village, and carried on my father's work as he wished me to. But I never... I might murder a reputation, but never a man."

"I know," the boy says, and his hand rests once more on the storyteller's cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "I've always known. You were never anything like our father. You were... You were unlike everyone else in the village. I always knew that." He lets his hand slide down to the storyteller's shoulder, gripping him there. "I'm glad you left," he says. "If you had stayed... It would have changed you, to stay, and I don't know what that would have meant for you, or for us. I'm glad you got out."

The storyteller opens his mouth to speak, but his brother's hand, pressed to his lips, stops him.

" _Don't_ ," he says, his voice very quiet, very passionate. "I may not have left in the same way you did, my brother, but I got out in my own way. And I..." He drops his hand from the storyteller's lips, reaches out to clasp his fingers instead, tugging. "Will you meet Him? I think you'll understand it better when you do."

And the storyteller nods, and lets himself be led to where Death awaits him, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes as he walks.

Death is indeed fair in His way, taller than the boy but not quite as tall as the storyteller, with thick brown hair and the palest skin and wide eyes that are somehow blue and gold and green and gray and all of these colors at once. He looks at the storyteller for some time, as if studying him, then extends one long-fingered hand. The storyteller stares at it for a moment; then, collecting himself, reaches out to clasp it. Death's touch is warmer than he would have thought; His grip dry and firm.

"I am not sorry I took him," Death announces, almost defiantly; He tilts His chin a little in the air, a gesture that seems strangely childish. "I am not..." Then His face softens; His other hand comes to cover the storyteller's as well, a strange but sympathetic gesture. "But I am sorry that it hurts you to have him gone. I will not say that I know how you feel, because I have never had anyone before him, so I never lost anyone. And I will never lose him, so I will never understand how you feel. But I... I know that it hurts you. And for that, I am sorry."

His face is so young. The storyteller wonders whether it was always thus, whether He was always this young. The boy's mother used to say that Death could come many ways, with many faces; perhaps this face is only for the boy, and there are others that are older. But if those other faces exist, they are elsewhere; this is the Death the storyteller is meeting, and his brother was right -- he understands a little more now than he did before. "But he's happy," the storyteller says, and mimicking Death's gesture, lays his free hand atop Death's, so their four hands are joined. Death's proudly lifted chin drops; He blinks His strange eyes, seeming surprised. "And if he's happy with You, then... Then I can be happy for him. As long as he's happy."

Death gives him a strange, almost tentative sort of smile. "i..." He glances over at the boy, who is watching the two of them with wide, shining eyes and a small, soft smile. "i try. To make Him happy, i... i am trying very hard."

"And You succeed," the boy says, coming closer, one hand on Death's trim waist, the other laid in the small of the storyteller's back. "You make me happier than I have ever been. I love You."

"i love You too," Death says, and lets one of His hands slip free of the storyteller's, reaching out for the boy. There is something in His eyes... The storyteller has never looked on another quite the way that Death looks at his brother; he does not think he ever will.

"You look so young," he says, and Death blinks at him again, looking puzzled. "But You're not, are You? You were never mortal, You were always... And You have been alone for a very long time."

Death shrugs; He looks at the boy, and the boy looks back at Him. "I have been alone," He says, quietly, "all My life. Whether that was a mortal life or an immortal one, I could not say, but it felt like forever. And then I met My love, and... And he changed Me. And I'm not alone anymore."

"Then I'm happy," the storyteller says, "for both of you."

And it's true, in its own way. Because it hurts to know the truth: that his brother is gone, that the story of his fame is gone, too, and can never be told. But there is another story here, and the storyteller thinks he is starting to see the shape of it now, in the two young faces before him, in the softness of their eyes as they look on one another and the firm clasp of their hands intertwined. And it is, in some ways, very similar to the tales he heard on his journey: the sacrifice of the witch's boy, and how Death came to him and, moved by his beauty and his trust, fell in love with him, and gave him not the pain of the sacrifice, but all the pleasures of love. It is similar to that story.

But in another way, it is very different.

The storyteller takes one of Death's hands in his, and then he takes one of his brother's hands, and he holds them both tightly. "I..." His breath catches in his throat; he clears it roughly, and keeps going. "I have a new home now, in a distant land," he says, and squeezes his brother's hand. "It's... I had hoped to take you there one day; the people are very like your mother, and I thought... But in this land, they are very fond of stories, and storytellers. And when a couple is joined together in marriage, they summon many storytellers, and celebrate the union by telling tales of love. If... If you would like to hear it, I would tell you a story now. To celebrate your union."

Death and the boy look at one another; Death's expression seems a little puzzled, but the boy is smiling softly. "We would love that," the boy says, and squeezes the storyteller's hand. There's a bit of a pause, and then he asks, "Will there be dragons?"

The storyteller laughs at that, laughs as he has not for a very long time. "Yes, little brother," he says, and lets go of his brother's hand, and reaches out to tousle his curls instead. "For you, there will be dragons."

And then he lets go of his brother, and of Death, and looks about the sacred grove until he finds a spot at the base of a birch tree, one with a trunk a little wider than some of the others around it. And he seats himself there, as though it were his old chair at the witch's house, and his brother seats himself on the soft earth only a little ways away. Death looks at them with His head cocked to the side, considering; then He settles on the ground behind the boy, and wraps His arms around the boy's waist, and the boy leans back into Death's chest, and looks very content.

The storyteller swallows down the lump in his throat, and takes a deep breath, and begins the story.

 

*

 

"A long time ago, there was a village not so very different from this one. And on one border of that village, there was a dark wood which none would enter, for it was said that a dragon lived in that wood. Now, not everyone in the village believed in dragons, but even those who did not would not enter the wood, for there were fierce bandits there as well. These bandits, it was said, had named themselves the servants of the dragon, and claimed to do his work, and to kill those the dragon had no time for, so as not to trouble him. They were merciless men, as bad as dragons themselves, if not worse.

"So it did not matter if the villagers believed in the dragon or if they did not; either way, they knew that to enter the wood meant death in the dragon's name. And they shunned the wood, and never entered it.

"But there was a boy who lived in the village, and this boy loved dragons." The storyteller pauses at that, meets his brother's bright eyes and delighted smile, and smiles back at him before continuing. "And he was not at all convinced that the bandits served the dragon. In fact, he thought that the bandits might even be keeping the dragon prisoner. That perhaps the dragon was in as much danger from the bandits as the villagers were, and that he was trapped in his wood in much the same way that the villagers were trapped in their village, and by the same enemy. And he wondered if freeing the dragon might also free the village.

"And, truthfully, he thought that even if the village could not be freed, freeing the dragon would be a good enough thing on its own, for he was a boy of great compassion, and did not like to see any thing suffer. Not animals, not humans, not even dragons.

"So he haunted the edge of the dark woods, just out of reach of the bandits, and he peered between the trees, hoping to see some glimpse of the dragon, some clue to the truths he sought. The trees were close together and cast a great shade on the wood, so that little of what lay within could be seen. But from time to time, the boy thought he saw a glimpse of silver, like scales, reflecting what little light came into the woods. And sometimes he heard a voice, crying. And he knew that this voice was the voice of the dragon, trapped in the dark wood, surrounded by bandits, and painfully, painfully alone.

"Eventually, it came to pass that the boy could no longer stand to haunt the edge of the woods, looking for that little glimpse of silver and listening to the dragon cry, alone and uncomforted. Because he was alone, too; he had lived too close to the woods for too long, and the villagers shunned him as they did the woods themselves, and he had no one to talk to, and no one to care for him. It broke his heart to think that another could be as lonely as he was, could hurt the way he did. And he was tired, so tired, of living his life in fear.

"And one day, the boy took a deep breath, gathered all his courage, and entered the woods.

"The woods were very dark, and for a few moments, the boy could barely see at all. So he stood in place on the path, just a few steps from the safety of the sunlight and of his own village, and stared into the shadows, and waited for his eyes to adjust, that he might see and continue. As he stood, he hearkened to the noises of the wood -- the call of birds who live high in the trees, and fear neither dragons nor men; the rustling of leaves, the sound of the branches swaying high above him. And for a moment, just for a moment, the boy could hear someone far ahead crying softly.

"Then he heard heavy footsteps approaching him, and he trembled, because he knew these were the bandits coming closer. His village was only a few steps behind him, and he was swift on foot; he knew he could escape. But he thought of that voice, crying, and he stayed right where he was, even as the bandits drew closer to him.

"The footsteps slowed, and stopped. Although the boy could not see anything at all, he knew that he was surrounded. He could not escape now.

"'Boy,' one of the bandits said, so close that the boy could feel the bandit's hot breath in his ear, could smell it, foul in his nose. 'Little boy, why do you come to the forest? Don't you know that there are dragons here?'"

"And the boy trembled even more to hear that voice, rough and low, but he took a deep breath, and he said, 'I know there is a dragon here. And I know more than that: I know that you keep him here, that he is a prisoner, and that he needs someone to find him and to save him. And I mean to be that person, even if I die trying.'

"The bandits laughed loudly at that, the rough laughter of rough men, and the one closest to the boy said, 'You mean to save the dragon? From what, his hunger? You're no more than a bite; you'll be gobbled up in moments. And whatever valuables you carry, we'll pick them out of the dragon's teeth ere long.'" And the bandits laughed at that again. Then the one who spoke leaned even nearer to the boy, so near that the boy could feel the scratch of his whiskers, and said, 'But go on, then. Go on and find yourself a dragon, brave boy. And see how grateful he will be when you do.'"

"Then the hot breath was gone, and as the boy stood, still trembling, he realized that he was alone. For the bandits could be loud when they chose to be, when they wanted someone to know exactly what sort of death awaited them. But they could be silent, too, and make no more noise than snow falling on the fields, and then one would never know when they were coming. They had allowed him to hear their approach this time because they were toying with him as a cat does a mouse, frightening him for their own entertainment. Eventually, though, there would come a time when they were no longer entertained. And that time, that last time, he would not hear them coming at all."

The storyteller pauses for a moment, to see the effect his words have made, and is astonished to see Death holding His love even closer than before, His pale cheek pressed to the dark, curly hair of the boy in front of Him. "I do not like these bandits," He murmurs, almost to Himself.

The storyteller's brother just smiles, and strokes Death's arm, and tucks himself more comfortably into Death's broad chest.

Again, the storyteller has to swallow down the lump in his throat before he can continue.

"But the boy was brave," he says, carrying on the tale, "and the compassionate heart within him would not let him abandon any, especially a dragon, to men such as this. So he gathered all of his courage and all of his kindness, and when he could see a little ways into the shadows that surrounded him, he began moving forwards, deeper and deeper into the dark woods, leaving the bright day further behind him. As he walked, he kept his eyes open, looking for a bit of daylight reflecting off the bright silver or scales, and he listened intently for the sound of crying. For he knew that, even if he heard the bandits again, there would be nothing he could do to stop them from hurting him. But if he could find the dragon first, then perhaps the two of them together could defeat the bandits, or at least escape them. And if not, then perhaps the boy would become a captive, too; perhaps he and the dragon could be prisoners together, and then neither of them would have to be alone.

"So he kept on.

"The woods he travelled through were very old, and in places very thick, with the trees crowded so close together that it may as well have been nighttime, and the boy could scarcely see in these places. But there were also little groves and glades where the trees were quite sparse, and in these places the sun shone very brightly. Coming out of the darkness of the woods into the bright sunlight of a little glade, the boy was forced to stop again, to let his eyes adjust to the light after so much darkness. And as he stood, squinting in the sunlight, he heard a rough voice calling out to him from the darkness of the woods.

"'Little boy,' the bandit called, and the boy swallowed hard, feeling himself trembling again. 'Still seeking dragons, little boy? They like glades like this, you know. They like the feel of the sunlight on their scales. They like to lie in wait in places like this and allow their prey to come to them, to be devoured slowly, at their leisure.'

"'The boy took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders, and said, 'The dragon will not harm me. For dragons can see into the hearts of men, and know their intentions, and I don't intend him any harm. He will see that, and he will know, and he will not harm me.'

"'It is true,' the bandit called back. 'A dragon can read your intentions. He will know whether you wish him harm or not. But tell me, little boy -- what in the name of the Mother makes you think he'll care? You could not hurt him, whether you wished to or not. Few mortals can. If he devours you, and he will, it won't be because you meant him harm. It will be because you are there, and you are prey, and that is all a dragon cares about.'

"'That is all _you_ care about,' the boy said, his voice sharper than it had been before. 'You seek to harm people, and take their treasure, and so you think that the dragon is like you. But I know that dragons are as wise as they are powerful, and they care nothing for gold, or jewels; they seek different treasures than that.'

"The bandit was silent for a while; the boy almost began to think that he was gone, and was taking his first steps into the sunlight of the glade when he heard the bandit speak again, freezing at the sound of that rough voice. 'You're right,' the bandit said. 'I think that the dragon is like me, that he wants the the things that I want, and that what I would do, he would do also. But so do you, little boy. You hate your solitude, and you think the dragon hates his. You long for a companion, and you assume that the dragon longs for one as well. You try to make the dragon human. As do I. But dragons are not human, little boy. And neither of us can truly tell what the dragon wants.'

"The boy closed his eyes, breathed deep and steady, and thought about this. 'You're right,' the boy said, at last. 'I don't know any more than you do. Which is why I'm going to ask him what he truly wants. Have you ever done that?'

"No answer came back from the bandit.

"The boy squared his shoulders, and kept moving.

"The woods grew darker and darker as the boy left the grove, thicker and closer together. It was difficult to see the path, and the boy stumbled sometimes, even fell. His hands were scraped and dirty, and they bled; he was hungry and thirsty and tired from walking. He could not hear the crying anymore, and there were no birds here, only the rustling of the trees. Sometimes, though, he thought he heard footsteps, the rough voices and rough laughter of the bandits following him. And he wondered if there were any dragons here at all. He wondered if he was only walking towards his death.

"But he kept on.

"By and by, he passed out of the trees into a large grove, larger than any other in the woods. It was dusk, now, and so the grove itself was not very much brighter than the rest of the woods, but the boy could see a few things. He saw, for instance, how the grove was ringed about with birch trees, shining silver in the waning light; he saw too a little stream that passed through the center of the grove, and this was also silver. And he saw a youth, kneeling by the stream, a youth with skin so fair that it shone silver. The youth was weeping quietly; the boy could only just hear the sound of him crying over the rustling of the leaves on the birch trees and the sound of the water running, and he knew that this --"

"-- Was the dragon," the storyteller's brother finishes, smiling slightly, his eyes warmly alight.

Death promptly shushes him, saying, "I am trying to listen to the story."

The storyteller has to work very hard to bite back his laughter at that. His brother seem less amused, but after a moment his face softens, and he smiles, and relaxes into his Lover's embrace.

"It is true," the storyteller says, after a moment, when he feels a little calmer. "This was indeed the dragon, for dragons can wear human shapes when they have a mind to, and when they wear such forms, it can be very difficult to tell a dragon from an ordinary person. But the boy had heard that voice before, crying quietly, and he had always known that it was the voice of the dragon. He had doubted for a little while, but only for a little while. Standing here just inside the glade at the very heart of the forest, seeing the youth kneeling by the stream, he no longer had any doubts about anything.

"'Excuse me,' he said, stepping forward. 'I don't mean to bother you, but I --'

"The youth turned and looked at him, and even from such a distance, the boy was captured by how blue the youth's eyes were, how strikingly beautiful. And then those beautiful eyes were not distant at all, but immediately in front of him, and much larger than they'd been before, set in a face that was not human at all. For a dragon can take a human shape when they have a mind to, but they can turn back just as quickly, and where the youth had been, there was now an enormous silver dragon, so large that he filled all the space in the grove, leaving only a little room for the boy to stand at the entrance. But there were still tears in those blue eyes, and the boy was not afraid any longer, for he knew that he was right.

"'Why,' the dragon growled, in a voice higher than the boy had expected, beautiful and clear but still deadly, 'Why do you come here? Why do you disturb the dragon?'

"'Because,' the boy said, softly, looking the dragon in his enormous eyes, seeing the tears still lingering there. 'Because I could hear you crying, and I thought you might be lonely. And I... I know what it is, to be lonely, and it hurt me to think of you like that. So I came to see if you would like some company, so you wouldn't have to be alone anymore.'

"The dragon looked at him for a long time; one last tear welled up in one of his enormous eyes, and broke free, and slid down the silver scales; the boy longed to wipe it away with his hands, but knew he had not been acquainted with the dragon long enough to take such liberties. Then the dragon raised his reptilian head on its long neck, and looked past the boy, out at the forest beyond him. 'And you,' he said, and the boy turned to see who was behind him, but he saw no one. He knew, then, that it must be the bandits, who had followed him to the very heart of the woods. 'You who haunt my woods, but rarely come close to me, and never enter my grove. Why have you come now?'

"'I have come,' a rough voice said, that same rough voice that the boy had heard twice before on his journey through the forest, and recognized now as the leader of the bandits, 'to watch you kill the boy.'

"The dragon raised his head a little higher for a moment, looking down at the forest, at the bandit only he could see lurking there. Then he bent his long neck, and slowly brought himself down to the boys' level, his chin nearly resting on the dark earth of the grove, his eyes fixed on the boys' face. 'You do not look,' the dragon said, in his sweet, deadly voice, 'as though you think I shall kill you.'

"'I don't,' the boy said, simply.

"'Why not?' the dragon asked him.

"'Because I mean you no harm,' the boy said, his eyes still on the dragon, on the silver scales he longed to touch. They looked smooth; he could not tell whether they would be warm or cool. He wished to find out. 'Because I... I would heal the harm which others have caused you, if I can. I do not think you would harm someone who came to help you. That would not be practical, and dragons are very practical.'

"The dragon seemed to smile at that, a smile that showed his many sharp teeth. 'You say that I have been harmed,' the dragon said, bringing his head a little closer to the boy; the push and pull of his breathing nearly knocked the boy down, and he had to reach out and steady himself on the dragon's snout, his hand resting gently on the dragon's scales. They were as smooth as they looked, and hard as glass, and surprisingly warm to the touch. 'You feel how hard my scales are, don't you? You see how sharp my teeth are, how long my talons. You see how large and strong I am. How is someone as small as you are supposed to harm one as great as I?'

"'By shunning you,' the boy said, quietly; with his hand he stroked the dragon's hard, smooth scales, careful not to get too near his nostrils, or his eyes, or anywhere else that might be sensitive. The dragon accepted his touch, but did not lean into it, or shut his eyes as though enjoying it. 'By haunting your woods but never coming near you, never talking to you or hearing your stories or telling you my own. Or by staying away from your woods entirely, never even coming near them. By leaving you alone long year after long year, unwelcome and... and unloved. Because it... It hurts when no one loves you. Doesn't it?'

"'You tell me, little one,' the dragon said, blue and unblinking eyes fixed on the boy in front of him. 'You tell me.'

"The boy swallowed hard at that, and felt his own tears rising up; for the first time since he had seen the dragon, he bowed his head. 'Yes,' he admitted, his voice no more than a whisper. 'Yes, it does.'

"The dragon pushed a little closer to him, as though helping to shore him up. 'I can see into your heart, you know,' he said. 'It isn't only that you wish for someone to love you. You wish to love someone, and to have them accept your love. But no one does. And you thought that I might.'

"There was nothing the boy could say to that; his throat was too closed up to allow speech. He simply nodded, and did not look up.

"'Open your eyes, little one,' the dragon said, and the boy did; he was so close to the dragon that he could only see one side of his face, one of his beautiful eyes; he looked into that eye, and saw himself reflected there, small and wide-eyed and trusting and fragile. 'Tell me,' the dragon said. 'Do you think I feel this pain as well? Do you think I wish to love someone? To have them accept my love, and let me keep them by my side, that I may care for them? Do you think that that is what I truly long for?'

"The boy looked into the dragon's blue eye, into his own reflection there. He was not wise as a dragon is; he could not see inside the dragon's heart. All he could do was trust in himself, and hope for the best. 'I do,' the boy said, finally. "But... I am a human, not a dragon; I think I understand you, but I can't, not really. So I could be wrong. So... tell me, if you will. What do you want? What will make you happy? Because I... That's all I want, really. To make you happy. If that means staying with you, or leaving you, or...' The boy glanced over his shoulder at the borders of the grove, at the bandits he could not see there. 'Even if it means I go with them,' he says. 'If that is what you want me to do. The choice is yours now.'"

"The dragon looked back at him with that one blue eye. Then there was a sort of shimmer, and the boy found his hand no longer touching hard scales, but soft and yielding skin; his hand rested on the cheek of the fair youth he had seen when he first entered the grove, and his eyes looked into the youth's blue eyes. The youth reached up with one long-fingered hand, and cupped the boy's cheek in his palm; the boy leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. 'I will not give you to them,' the dragon said, softly. 'I... I will not give you to anyone, nor will I send you away. I will keep you, and care for you, and accept what love you have for me, and give you the love I can. And then perhaps I will not have to weep for something I cannot name anymore, if we can love each other.'

"'It won't work.'

"The boy had quite forgotten the presence of the bandits -- or at least, of their leader and spokesman -- lost as he was in the dragon's blue eyes. The sound of his rough voice startled the boy; he turned and stumbled backwards into the dragon's chest, and the dragon immediately wrapped both arms around him, holding him possessively close. But the boy could not relax into that embrace the way he would have wanted to, for the leader of the bandit had entered the grove, and was only a few steps away from them. He was a tall man, sharp-featured; he might have been handsome when he was younger, but life had narrowed his eyes and hardened his jaw and worked his mouth into an angry twist, and now he only looked cruel, hard-hearted. He looked as though he meant to steal the boy from the dragon's arms and pull him back into the dark woods, and although the boy knew that dragons are stronger than men and that it would not be possible for any bandit to take him from that tight grip...

"He had not been frightened when he was looking in the dragon's enormous eyes, when the leader of the bandits was only a rough voice in the distance. He was frightened now.

"'You are a dragon,' the leader of the bandits continued, taking another step forward; the dragon merely rested his chin on the boy's shoulder and pulled him back even closer against his broad chest, wrapping around him as a snake might. 'You do not feel love. You can not care for another. This is not your nature. You lust for treasure; you seek to destroy the works of man and to -- '"

"'You are right,' the dragon said, in his high, sweet voice, which was now deadlier than it had ever been. His grip on the boy did not slacken a bit. 'In one thing only, you are right: I am a dragon. You are not. Who are you, then, to tell me what my nature is? Who are you to tell me what I feel, what I can and cannot do? How would you know better than I what I truly seek?'

"'I have served you,' the bandit said, another step closer, his voice getting louder. The boy closed his eyes and turned his face into the dragon's chest; he wondered where the bandit's hands would fall on him, what it would feel like to be caught between the two, pulled at, perhaps even pulled apart -- 'I have protected you. I have --'

"'I did not ask for you to serve me,' the dragon said; without fully releasing the boy, he stepped sideways out from behind him, slipping between him and the bandit. But he kept one arm around the boy's waist, and the boy clung to him with both hands, hiding his face in the dragon's shoulder. 'I do not need a servant. And I certainly do not need protection. You came to me and promised me these things if I would allow you to stay in my forest; when I told you that you could stay where you wished without asking, you said you would give me these things anyway. But you never asked me what I wanted.'

"'I --' There was a moment's hesitation, and the boy wondered if perhaps the bandit had gone. When he looked up, though, he saw the bandit only a step or two back from them, still staring at them with strange fury. 'It won't work,' the bandit said. 'At best, it will entertain you for some time. But you will tire of him, and I will pick his bones for treasure, by and by.'

"Then the dragon stepped fully in front of the boy, blocking him with his body, and the boy wrapped both arms around the dragon's waist and pressed himself up against the dragon's back, fearful that perhaps others among the bandits would come and try to take him now that the dragon's arms no longer held him. 'Do you think so?' the dragon asked, his voice higher and colder than the boy had ever heard it. 'You presume much. For all you know, you won't leave this grove alive. For all you know, it will be your bones left behind, for your band of scavengers to pick over as best they can.'

"' _Don't_ \--'

"The dragon turned back to the boy upon hearing his voice; he rested his hands on the boy's shoulders and fixed him with his strange blue eyes. 'Don't?' he repeated.

"The boy nodded; he kept his eyes on the dragon's. 'Send him away, if you will, for he is dangerous and he hurts folk and he... He frightens me.' This last admission came out very softly, and the dragon squeezed his shoulders with surprisingly gentle hands. 'But let his death come from some other cause. I would not have you be the one to take him.'

"The dragon looked at the boy for some time. Then he pulled the boy back into his arms and stroked his hand down the boy's back, soothing him. When he spoke his voice was loud and clear, directed not at the boy, but at the bandits in the wood. 'I will do nothing to harm him,' said the dragon. 'If he and his companions leave at once, and never return. But they are no longer permitted to haunt any part of my forest. If I see them again, it will mean their deaths.'

"There was a rustling in the trees at that, and the boy knew the bandits were fleeing -- all save one. Their leader remained in the grove, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded as close as ever. 'You see, boy?' he asked. 'He is a dragon, and dragons do not change. He has grown weary of me, and I am banished now. You had better hope that banishment is all that happens to you when you, too, weary him.'

"The dragon actually sighed at that; the boy could feel the rising and falling of his chest as he exhaled. 'Bandit,' the dragon said, and he did indeed sound weary. 'If I were half the dragon you think I am, I would already have killed you. And if my boy objected to that and tried to flee, I would recapture him and hide him away with the rest of my treasure. That I have failed to do either of these things proves that you know less of dragons than you say.' The boy could not help smiling at that, and the dragon, as if he could feel the expression, continued to stroke the boy's back with gentle hands. 'But you should know, bandit,' he continued, 'that I value this boy above any other treasure that could be presented to me. And it is unwise to threaten a dragon's treasure. So get you gone, and never come here again. And remember what you have learned today.'

"The boy could hear the bandit spitting upon the ground; the dragon stayed calm and steady in the boy's arms, and did not react. 'I have learned nothing,' the bandit said. 'Nothing at all.'

"'Well,' the dragon said, quietly. 'Then I am very sorry for you.'

"There was no other response from the leader of the bandits, and by and by, the dragon leaned in and whispered in the boy's ear, 'He is gone now, my treasure. You are safe from him.'

"'The boy pulled back a little bit, although he did not leave the warm circle of the dragon's arms. It had been a long time since any had held him close, and he had nearly forgotten how comforting such a thing could be, how safe it felt. Even pulling back a little was a difficult thing to do, although when he looked up into the dragon's blue eyes and saw the dragon smiling down at him, he had to concede that it was a thing worth doing. 'Thank you,' the boy said, quietly, looking up at the dragon; the dragon removed one hand from the small of the boy's back, and raised it up, tracing the boy's face with his fingertips. 'For... For being what I knew you could be.'

"'Thank you for knowing when I myself did not,' the dragon replied, still smiling. His hand cupped the boy's chin, lifted it up higher; the two were very near one another now, close enough that the boy could feel the dragon's breath on his skin, a ghostly caress. 'I... I will kiss you now, if I may.'

"The boy simply raised his chin a little higher, and leaned in, and kissed the dragon first."

The storyteller pauses for a moment; the action of the story is finished now, and he likes to take a moment before he gets to the moral (such as it is), to leave that world and re-enter this one. It is not always easy to leave the story, but this time... This time it's not so bad. His brother is only a few feet from him, watching him with shining eyes as he always has, but he's not alone anymore. There is a blue-eyed youth holding him close -- his dragon, his Death, his lover -- and he's happy. They're both happy.

And the storyteller knows that he, too, will be happy, eventually.

He clears his throat, and continues.

"Now, there are some that say that it is the kiss that truly began to transform the dragon, to change him until he was very nearly human. And there are others that say that it was never the dragon that changed at all, but the boy -- that he became uncanny, and strange, and wise, and more dragon than man. But of course, there are none who can truly say what a dragon is, for only dragons know the truth and they are careful with the secrets they treasure. It may be that dragons are nothing like humans at all. It may be that dragons are more like us than we think.

"That being said, the truth is that both the boy and the dragon changed, in the end. Because that's what love does. It changes you."

Death presses His cheek against the boy's hair, and holds him closely, and smiles. He has, the storyteller thinks, a disarmingly sweet smile.

The storyteller wipes a few tears from his eyes, and clears his throat. "And that," he says, "is my gift to you. May love continue to change you for the better, as I can see it has already begun to do."

The boy just smiles at him for a little while, eyes bright and shining; then he gently extracts himself from Death's embrace and stands, arms spread wide; the storyteller pushes up to his feet and moves to meet his brother, to embrace him. "I love it," the boy says, his voice only a little muffled in the storyteller's shoulder. "I love you. I... Thank you. Thank you."

"I love you too," the storyteller murmurs, and holds his brother tight for a long time.

Eventually, though, the boy slips back a little bit, standing with his hands on the storyteller's waist. "But there's one thing," he says, and the storyteller can't help but smile, even as he's rolling his eyes a little. The boy had only just begun to do this, to find fault with the storyteller's tales, when the storyteller had left his village. It's strangely reassuring that this hasn't changed. "You forgot a character."

"Did I," the storyteller says, as flatly as he can. But he's still smiling; he can't stop himself. His brother is here; he can feel the boy's warm hands on him and look into his shining eyes, and he's even teasing, and the storyteller never thought he'd have this again, and he can't stop smiling.

"The most important character!" The boy's hands shift from the storyteller's waist to his shoulders; he gives his older brother a little shake. "The handsome son of the bandit king, who was the only person in the village to befriend the boy who loved dragons. And when he heard what had happened to the boy, he traveled for months -- across strange lands, facing unprecedented dangers -- to find the boy he loved as a brother and give him a wedding present. He's a crucial character. You can't leave him out."

"I..." The storyteller flushes at that; he tries to turn away, but his brother's grip is stronger than it was when he was a child, and he can't get free, so he settles for dropping his head, speaking to the grass instead of to his brother. "It's not... First of all, if the son of the bandit king had never left, then --"

"Then the boy wouldn't have sought out the dragon," his brother finishes, and gives him another little shake. "And the dragon would still be in the woods by himself, weeping, with no one to care about his sorrows. You can't say that would have been a happy ending, can you?"

The storyteller turns, and looks at Death, still sitting on the ground and watching them. He doesn't seem unhappy, but then, He doesn't really have a reason to be unhappy anymore. Someone loves Him; He's not alone. "No," the storyteller admits, quietly. "No, I suppose I can't."

"Yes, the boy was lonely without his brother," the boy says, his hands gentling, squeezing lightly at his brother's shoulders before unfolding, smoothing out his shirt.. "And yes, it was hard. But he knew that his brother was in more danger, being the son of the king of those bandits, than any other in the village. Because he wasn't just at risk of being killed by a bandit; he was at risk of becoming one. The boy would never have asked his brother to stay. And in the end, the boy found love -- not just any love, but the love of a dragon, who could give him nearly everything he'd ever wanted."

The storyteller finally looks back at his brother, blinking back against the tears that will not stop flowing, tears half of joy, half of sorrow. "Nearly?" he asks.

His brother smiles back at him. "The only thing the boy missed was his friend, the son of the bandit king, who he loved as a brother. And when he saw his brother walking through the woods toward him, he finally had everything he'd ever wanted."

The storyteller reaches up and pulls his brother's hands away from his shoulders, holding them in both of his. He knows what he needs to ask, now. He's not sure what he'll do with the information once he knows, but he knows what he needs to ask. "And the son of the bandit king," he says, softly. "Did he stay with his brother, in the dragon's lair? Or did he leave his brother behind yet again?"

This time, it's the boy who looks away, even if only for a moment, and when he turns back to the storyteller, his eyes are bright with tears. "He couldn't stay," he admits, his voice a little choked. "He had things he needed to do, out in the world and..."

The storyteller's shoulders slump; his head hangs. He's not sure he's ready to die, but that doesn't mean he's ready to leave his brother either, and --

"But what you've forgotten," the boy says, quickly, squeezing the storyteller's hands, "what everyone always forgets, is that dragons can fly. They can go anywhere at all. You only have to tell them where."

The storyteller glances up again, sees his brother's shining eyes; he turns to look at Death and sees Him standing, holding a ripe pomegranate in one outstretched hand. "I have heard," Death says, in His high, sweet voice, "that it is unwise for mortals to eat from the gardens of Death; for once they have, Death can find them wherever they go. But I thought perhaps you would not mind that so much."

"I..." The storyteller's eyes fix on the pomegranate, red and ripe; he longs to reach out for it, but cannot bring himself to release his brother's hands; his brother eventually lets go of him in order to take the pomegranate and hand it over.

"You said earlier," the boy says, softly, "that you were living among people that reminded you of my mother. That they kept the same traditions. There was one; I don't know if you ever visited us on feast days, or for celebrations, but we would always lay an extra place setting at our table, for --"

"For Death," the storyteller finishes, looking down at the pomegranate in his hands, then back up at his brother, at Death hovering just beyond him. "I... I know the tradition, yes."

"Set two places," the boy says, and leans in, and kisses his brother on the cheek. "Whenever you would have us. And we will come."

"I..." The storyteller's voice is lodged in his throat; he has no words. "Blaine, I..."

"You won't be alone," Death says, His face at once so young and yet entirely ageless. "We promise you. You won't be alone."

All the storyteller can do is nod, dumbly, and stare at the pomegranate in his hands, and let himself be led back to the birch tree where he sat to tell his story. His brother pushes on his shoulders until he sits down, leaning back against the trunk of the tree; Death takes the pomegranate from him and passes His hand over it; when He hands it back, it is neatly split in half. "There are good berries not far from here," the boy says, settling down next to the storyteller; behind him, Death sinks quietly to the earth as well, one arm around the boy's waist and His chin resting on the boy's shoulder -- the storyteller knows in his heart that Death is an ancient thing, but here, with His love, He seems barely more than a boy. "And a clear spring to drink from. Would you -- If you aren't in a hurry to return to the village, you could stay here with us a while. It's safe now; our father..." A shadow passes over the boy's face, but then he shakes his head, and his expression clears. "No one dangerous comes here anymore. You could... We don't have to say goodbye so quickly. If you don't want to."

The storyteller finds he is still too emotional for speech; he manages to look his brother in the face at that, though, and his expression obviously shows his true feelings.

The boy laughs, ducks his head. "Okay," he says, shifting a little closer to his brother, so that their knees brush. "Okay, good. Um. I don't have a lot of stories, but I could --"

"You've been in the Land of the Dead for two years," the storyteller manages to say, his voice still a little hoarse with emotion, "and yet you've nothing to tell stories about."

The boy flushes darkly; Death looks suspiciously pleased with Himself, and the storyteller quickly turns his attention back to his pomegranate.

"Never mind," he says. "Just... You were doing well with the son of the bandit king. You could keep going with that."

"I will not!" the boy protests, sounding deeply affronted. "That is for your wedding day; I won't tell you another word of it until it's time." And once more, the storyteller finds himself torn between laughter and tears; he hides his face by staring at his pomegranate, waiting for the storm of emotions to pass. "No, I will tell you another story. I will..." The boy hesitates for a moment, then, sounding more than a little proud of himself, he says, "I will tell you where that pomegranate came from."

"Please do," the storyteller says, so softly he's not sure even his brother can hear him. But then, he's not sure that it matters much. He has been heard; now it is time to listen.

So he stretches his legs out in front of him (his brother almost immediately does the same, laying his legs across the storyteller's), dips his fingers between the pomegranate's thin white membranes, and brings a few seeds to his mouth, as his brother says, "Now, nearly everyone thinks they can tell you exactly what the Lands of the Dead look like, and none of them are wrong exactly, but none of them are exactly right, either. Because just as no two humans are alike, no two deaths are alike, and the Lands of the Dead always look exactly as you expect them to look, which means they are different for each and every creature who dies. Of course, many people have similar beliefs -- there are those who think they will go to some kind of paradise (whatever paradise looks like for them), and others who think they will suffer for eternity, and still others who --"

And the storyteller eats the pomegranate seeds, tastes their juice in his mouth and feels them slide down his throat, and he listens to his brother's voice rising and falling, and he watches Death press in closer behind him, eyes sliding shut with contentment. He has no idea what Death might have been like before He met the boy; humans can never truly understand the nature of a dragon. But what he does know is that Death was alone, and now He is not, and that in and of itself has changed Him, just as it has changed the storyteller's brother.

And the storyteller knows that when he leaves this grove, he won't be alone either.

And that, he knows, will change him, too.


End file.
